Anna wanted to die. Since the age of nine, this desire stalked her. As a child she was ordinary, both in appearance and intelligence. Her parents demonstrated their hate for one another, thus eliminating Anna’s education in love. Anna had no siblings or friends. She wasn’t allowed to bring her classmates up because her mother didn’t want them to mess up the apartment. Anna was ostracized. Instead of counting sheep, she would cry herself to sleep.

A loner, Anna reinvented herself as a happy child in her artwork, surviving the growing years until she was old enough to move out. As an adult, Anna would draw at night. This was her catharsis.

Adulthood was a Match.com letdown. Men were younger versions of her father––domineering and always critical. Her sketches turned grayer and more sinister.

She hid her feelings behind her wit. She did manage to make a few friends. She became an art director at a major advertising firm. Anna dressed in hipster chic and joined a local gym. But no one could see the shadow growing longer and darker in her thoughts. Her MasterLock kept her chameleon emotions safe, just as her sketchbooks did.

Recently, her sketchbooks and pencils had gotten early retirement. Her humor couldn’t keep covering up her pain and the double-dip recession. Anna had been out of work for two and a half years. She owed money on several plastic cards. She had to withdraw from her friends. Love and sex made her sick. Anna still wanted to die.

Anna planned her suicide for days, marking her calendar for the date and time––Friday, November 26th before midnight. On Thursday evening, Anna went to bed after finishing a bottle of rosè. She skipped the traditional turkey meal with her friends. Anna had nothing to be thankful for, and she still wanted to die.

A flood in the bathroom prompted the landlady to call Anna. Instead, she got her voicemail. The landlady ran upstairs and knocked on her tenant’s door.

But Anna didn’t hear a thing. She was already in a deep sleep. In her dream, she saw her family and friends sitting on folding chairs. Versions of herself as a child, teenager, and young adult sat in the audience. No one was smiling, nor did anyone speak. Anna couldn’t move or speak. Her hands were tied to a pole and duct tape sealed her mouth. She began to sweat. Someone lit the newspapers underneath her feet. Flames flew upwards, igniting her t-shirt. Fear gripped her, because Anna did not want to die.

Hearing the smoke alarm go off, the landlady finally unlocked the door. She followed the scent of burnt flesh leading her to the small bedroom. Anna’s torso laid in a heap of ash, but the rest of Anna’s body remained unburned. Sketchbooks filled with ash-like drawings of Joan of Arc at the stake were scattered by the bedside near an empty bottle of wine. The landlady made the sign of the cross before calling 911.